


the universe's guide to getting it over it

by ghostvinyls (jebbyfish)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Fix-It, PTSD, Post-Canon, Smoking, i just have a lot of feelings and pent up rage and pidge is my outlet, probably?, when am i not writing a post canon fic LMAOOO
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-10-11 09:56:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jebbyfish/pseuds/ghostvinyls
Summary: At this point, it was just part of the routine to come back to Altea every year.Not that any of them had to be happy about it, of course. And things had a way of falling apart when you spend twenty years not saying the things you should have.The universe no longer needed to be saved.So why did they feel like they still have to save each other?





	1. step one: bloody noses are a good wake up call

Pidge was late.

Again.

Six years in a row, she thought the record must be at now. Not her fault, to be fair; Dad stuck her with her own trainees, and Pidge found herself with a responsibility as a commanding officer, a role thrusted onto her in the middle of smattering out strands of code for the latest update to the Garrison systems. Dad had snuck up behind her, then, placing a cold soda next to her laptop, standing silently and without drawing attention to his presence, until--

“I think you’d do a good job commanding recruits.”

Pidge had paused, fingers hovering over the keys, her head twisting back to stare right at her dad, whose face was beginning to contort into a smile.

“I’m not Shiro.”

“You don’t have to do it like Shiro,” he said, and he placed an affectionate hand on her head, running loosely through amber waves before pulling back, stepping away. “Just… you should be out there with us, training them. Not cooped up here, running code.”

“I like running code.”

“You liked being a paladin more.”

At the time, Pidge figured he meant it to be inspiring; that’s who her dad was, an inspiration. And she was enjoying it, leading the trainees in exercises, giving tips on fights; but Shiro was better at it. Keith was better at it.

Keith. Probably the only person she wasn’t dreading to see for the annual Voltron get-together dinner on Altea. She liked Keith when they were young. He trusted her, didn’t question her actions, and was a better friend in silence than Hunk and Lance were in vocal protests. He was the only person she still talked to on a semi-regular basis. Mostly because they were the same. The universe didn’t appear in a day; and it wasn’t going to rebuild itself in a day, either. She’s not sure when it started, the first time she realized the only real person she wanted to talk to was Keith and no one else, not even Hunk. After all, she found herself working with him the most, while Shiro and Hunk travelled the universe to spread diplomacy and schmooze over warring peoples, Pidge and Keith were rebuilding. Building a military on one side of the coin and trying to fix the aftermath of a different military on the other.

“Are you going tomorrow?” Keith’s voice crackled on the other side of the line just the night before, because of course he decided to call her the night before the anniversary. Pidge shrugged, pulling her hair back into a half-ponytail before remembering he couldn’t see her.

“Maybe I’ll skip this time.”

Another crackle, and Keith muffled the receiver to talk to someone in the background. It sounded like Ezor. She couldn’t tell, really.

“If you skip you’ll never come back.”

Damn him for being right.

“It’s just a chore now,” Pidge finally admitted, leaning back in her rolling chair to stare up at a blank Garrison-issued ceiling. “Like, I don’t like these people anymore, Keith. Why should I keep showing up pretending I do?”

Keith was quiet for a long time. Pidge let out a low rumble between her lips. “Hey, Mister Team Leader. Kinda need your infinite guidance and wisdom about now.”

“Sorry, I was just thinking about how the smartest person I know is being kind of an idiot right now.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’ll fuck off when you say you’re coming tomorrow.”

She let out a groan. “Kicking my ass into gear huh?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Don’t you have some Galra outpost to be tearing down for scraps right now?”

“Nope. Completely cleared my schedule to have a phone call with this coworker of mine.”

“She sounds like a bitch.”

“She is. Are you coming or not?”

She was coming. Fashionably late by about thirty minutes, but at least she showed up. The familiarity of sinking into the pilot seat of the Green Lion was almost too much to pass up. The Lions didn’t do much these days, Pidge figured. They came around the same time of year, near the anniversary dinner, and stayed until after everyone was back home safe, and then fucked right off back into space. Pidge missed it, flying.

She missed the lions being in close quarters, too. And she wouldn’t say it, but seeing the Green Lion come back every year and sit outside the Galaxy Garrison, expectant, purring low--it was perhaps the most at-peace Pidge felt. Every year. Every damn year. Clockwork. Routine.

She sunk into the leather seat, watching the stars skim by as the lion skipped time and space effortlessly, zoned in on one planet in particular in one particular system for one particularly uncomfortable dinner.

The portal opened, and she winced when the unused comm crackled to life.

“What, were you in the wrong time zone or something?”

She hated how much bite was in his words, and Pidge snatched the comm up with a hiss.

“Is that what you wanna fight about right now, dickwad?”

Another voice cut in, deep and warm, yet still acrid. “Can you two not fucking do this right now? Not today.”

The comm went silent. Fine. If he didn’t have anything else to say, then neither did Pidge.

Things went wrong, of course.

Pidge had figured that was inevitable. Most childhood friendships weren’t slated to last, and Pidge figured whatever bond she had with these guys was going to go up in smoke sooner or later. It was better that it was sooner, like ripping off a bandaid before it got sticky from sweat and gummy and stopped covering up the wound anyway. And it wasn’t like she had the time to fix things, whatever these things were. She had a life now, a better one, one that wasn’t full of people that wanted her dead and the rumble of guns and feeling her teeth rattle every time a blast hit Green and sent her in a terrifying tumble-dry.  Life was better.

Life still involved being some sort of war trophy, sure, but at least she could relax knowing she’d die on solid ground.

Keith and Shiro greeted her when Green touched down and Pidge found herself sliding familiarly out of the lion and onto pavement. She greeted Shiro with a hug, and he gave her a quiet pat on the back as he did, and the touch felt no more familiar than a cousin you only saw at Thanksgiving maybe once every five years. Keith had the decency to just go for the one-armed hug, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze, but his arm still loped lazily around her frame, and for that Pidge was comforted. Keith wasn’t good at the whole friends thing, like Pidge, and he never pretended he could be. It made him likeable.

Unlike certain people.

“How’s your family?” Shiro asked, as the trio walked slow through the Altean castlegrounds, now almost fully restored thanks to Coran’s guidance and work. Pidge thought, quietly, that she liked the flowers; before remembering, bitterly, she wasn’t allowed to.

“They’re good.”

“The trainees?”

“Better than I ever was.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled unexpectedly, and silence filled the space between them, not unwelcomed, but certainly not what any of them were used to.

Hunk and Lance didn’t even have the decency to look up from the table when Coran sprung up their way, wrapping his arms around Pidge’s shoulders in a tight hug, glad that she was there, who cares if she showed up so, so late and the food was starting to get cold--

Pidge ignored the elephant in the room. An elephant wasn’t even close to the same mass as the statue was, but Pidge, over the years, realized she liked ignoring the statue more than she did looking at it.

She took her place between Keith and Lance, not even bothering to say hi to the latter. 

If that’s how he was going to be, dandy.

“Hi Hunk,” she finally said, breaking the silence as the remaining splinters of a once fully-fledged team settled in for a quiet dinner. Hunk greeted her with a nod. He looked tired. He didn’t used to look so tired. “Food looks good.”

No answer. Just the clatter of utensils.

This was usually why Pidge liked to show up late. The old warmth and love of a family at a hot dinner was long gone with a snuffed out vibrancy caused, probably, entirely by Pidge herself one night six years before. She had cracked under the pressure, and the fury that met her was unrivaled. It was what she expected, what she wanted. Someone to say what they were all thinking, all feeling, and she didn’t care how bad the burns were going to look once the fire was put out.

She kind of cared now, shoving whatever rice-looking dish Hunk had whipped up into her mouth, all too aware of the fat separating from the grains and salt and creating some unholy texture disaster that soaked into her tongue. It’d be rude to gag. Pidge swallowed with half the grace of a pornstar.

They didn’t have anything to talk about anymore. Every year it was the same; a check-in, after the rudimentary hellos. What’s been happening since they all sat down together beneath a statue of her, gaudy and silent, and if she were alive she’d definitely think it was the tackiest shit this side of the Milky Way. The news varied, of course. War decimated the universe, and the universe defenders had to clean it up the best they could. And it was exhausting work.

One minute they were scrambling to remember what it was like to just be fifteen, sixteen years old, the next minute the universe was still needing them. When the fuck was the universe not needing them?

No rest for the wicked, as they say.

Dinner went by faster than other times. Eighteen minutes, Pidge timed, before Shiro stood up and excused himself to walk around the grounds with Coran. Then went Lance, then Keith, and finally Hunk stood up and busied himself with clearing plates.

“I can help,” Pidge said gently, hands reaching out to grab her dish; but Hunk was faster.

“I don’t need you to.”

She bit her tongue, frowning, swirling the deep red liquid in her glass and wishing she could get drunk faster. “Yeah, for sure.”

That’s all she could say, watching him pick up the last of the empty plates and hurrying off away from the open space they held their annual dinner. There was probably a different Pidge right now, who was still debating single versus double modulation with Hunk right now, at the very same table. Maybe in that one she would still be alive.

Her head rolled back instinctively, despite every synapse in her brain screaming at her not to turn around and look. But it was a fucking monster, a thousand-yard stare bearing into her back the entire night, and Pidge thought she knew exactly what she would want to say.

“Chew me out, would you?”

She had to give it a shot, right?

Silence. Pidge furrowed her brows, standing up and turning a fast one-eighty to face the statue. She had to look up. She always had to look up.

“Tell me I’m a horrible bitch. Tell me I fucked this one thing up. God, do you even see me right now? Everyone’s pissed off all the time now, and you and I both know why. So stop hiding behind that stupid fake rock smile and give me a fucking wake up call, already.”

Silence. Can’t ask much from something that wasn’t really her, right?

Tears stung the back of her eyes, and Pidge spun around quickly to grab her glass, the one thing on the dinner table that was full of alcohol, and downed it before the tears could flow. It didn’t sting anymore like it used to. Down as easy as water.

She slammed the glass down too hard, and when Pidge looked up, blurry-eyed, she wasn’t expecting to be met with an audience.

Lance shifted uncomfortably where he stood, arms stretched out behind his head, expression blank--no. Not blank. She could recognize pity anywhere, but coming from him, it was a cigarette burning against her flesh. Her eyes shifted to the marks at the corners of his eyes, and she looked away with a wince. She hated those marks. She hated them more than anything in this world.

“You’re a horrible bitch.”

He didn’t even have the decency to make it hurt.

“I didn’t want to hear that from you.”

“But you wanted to hear it.”

A silence passed, and Pidge jumped quickly to the still half-full bottle of wine, popping the cork and taking a long, messy gulp that dribbled down her chin. She wiped the stain onto the sleeve of her Garrison-issued coat, forgetting almost entirely that she was wearing it still.

Lance was still standing there, and she had half a mind to start yelling at him again. But from the way he watched her, this time, Pidge knew that he wasn’t going to start yelling back.

And she hated him for that.

“Why’re you here?” Lance finally said, and Pidge narrowed her eyes, taking another sip from the bottle in her hands, delighting in the small buzz it gave her.

“I was invited.”

“Yeah, no shit. Doesn’t mean you have to keep coming.”

There it was, the same bite that met her just barely half an hour ago on the comm.

“Keith wanted me here.” She paused, and the liquid courage took over before she could stop the next words from clumsily dropping out of her mouth. “Allura would want me here.”

“You don’t get to say that.”

He was quick on that, and quicker to ripping the bottle out of her hands.

“Hey!”

“I’m cutting you off. You’re a shittier drunk than you are a friend.”

“I’m only a shitty friend because you’re always a shitty friend! You keep doing this!” Her hands gestured madly, and Pidge glared at him with new resolve. “And I’m not drunk. Don’t say I’m drunk to make me think I’m not in my mind, Lance.”

“You’re not in your mind, you’re always--I’m not doing this again.  _ Fuck you, _ Pidge. Go home and goodnight.”

“I’ll go home when I want to go home!”

“Do you even like coming back?” His voice raised, despite himself, she was sure, because Lance didn’t like to tango where people could see him despite all his cries for attention. “Do you even like being around us anymore?!”

She didn’t even have to think about it.

“I don’t!”

“Then why do you come, Pidge?!”

“Because if I don’t, then I’m going to fucking die, Lance!”

That made him stop, hands slamming hard on the table, and all Pidge could do was throw her hands to her side, acutely aware of dark blue eyes zeroed in only on her. One time, years ago, she would’ve wanted that more than anything. For him to see her, look right at her, think she was the most beautiful person in the room. Eyes on her.

But then she saw the marks at the corners of his eyes, and she forced herself to be furious before the dull ache of sadness could take over.

“After the vigil,” she said. That was in two days. Two more days, and she’d be out of his fucking hair. “And then I’m out. I want  _ out.” _

That was enough to bewilder Lance, who stood up straighter, eyes still on her as Pidge set to packing up her backpack. “Out?”

“Out of Voltron.” A pause. “If you want me gone, Lance, all you had to do was fucking ask.”

And she was waiting, meeting his gaze with one of her own intensity, hands tightening around the straps of her backpack. Lance’s expression crumbled, for barely a second.

“That’s not what she’d want.”

“Said it yourself. You don’t get to fucking say that,” Pidge said, jutting a finger at the statue. “Because she’s not fucking here. She hasn’t been here. You don’t know what she wants.”

She was doing it again. The reason for the first falling out. The reason for every falling out. There was a life lesson, certainly, about speaking ill of the dead, but somewhere in the middle of a spiraling war that Pidge was certain she was going to die fighting, she forgot how it went.

Lance didn’t answer for a long time, instead walking the length of the table with Pidge, meeting her at the end, arms spread out in some feeble attempt to block her, stop her motions.

“She’d want us to be happy, Pidge.”

He said it quietly, almost too quiet, and if they weren’t the only people here, she’d be certain she’d never hear him say it.

And it pissed her off. That’s all he had to say, was it? Some guilt tripping atonement for not doing what she’d want him to, for none of them doing what she wanted them to do. As if she had any reason to feel happy when there was a hole in her chest no number of years could ever hope to heal. And her hand lashed out in almost reflex, and Pidge wasn’t aware that she did anything until she felt the sting in her knuckles and Lance crumpled like paper onto the ground with a hefty weight of expletives.

“You don’t get to say that either.” It came out slow, unfocused, and Pidge was beginning to wonder, hey, maybe she was drunk. “Not when your definition of happy means shutting me out for five thousand, eight hundred and twenty four days and expecting me to come back smiling for the other sixteen.”

He was cradling his nose. She wasn’t aiming, but good for him. She let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding, shaking out her hand, striding past him, calling out over her shoulder with all the hate she could muster.

“See you for breakfast, cadet.”

 

\--

 

“I think she broke it.”

Lance pressed a tentative finger to the bridge of his nose, wincing when it stung. His head was swimming, and he took a long look at his expression in the mirror. His nose was beginning to swell. The bags and wrinkles under his eyes were deep, darker. And his skin lost it's glow, mostly from working in the hot sun and not taking the time to moisturize anymore. Years ago, he stopped spending half his evening routine standing in front of a mirror.

He mostly didn’t want to look at the things she left behind.

Slowly, Lance turned to face the space mice that sat on the vanity, sharing a plate of oatmeal cookies Hunk had made for them. They were worried and chirped incessantly when Lance first stumbled into his room, wondering probably, “hey dipshit, where’d you get the broken nose?”

He wasn’t sure. He thought he could understand the mice pretty well by now, but not the way Allura could.

A pang in his chest at the mere thought of her, and Lance rubbed an unconscious thumb under the marks on his face. She gave him those. Because she loved him.

And the guilt continued to chew on him, because almost too late did Lance know that he didn’t feel the same way.

He knew it the first time he went to a mirror and saw the damn markings for himself. The ones that made his friends wince and turn away from him, the ones that made Keith stop looking him in the eyes and caused Pidge so much hurt that six years ago she threw water in his face and called him names. He wanted to like the marks, so much. They were her final gift, a last reminder that she was with him, with  _ all  _ of them, but the gift so quickly turned into a curse when all it served was a reminder that they never did win the war.

Tentatively, he scratched at it again, wondering if the blue would flake off with a drag of his nail. Nothing. Permanent. A curse.

There was creepings of doubt, that first time he saw them. He was a teenager, madly in love with the first girl who fell into his arms; literally. And space was a funny thing, so infinitely huge yet the space between him and Allura was small enough to make him believe that she was, without any pretense, the one. He would’ve been blind not to be in love with her.

She was everything.

Ironically, now she really was.

He pat Chulatt on the head, absently, leaving the room once more to wander the castlegrounds, pausing for a moment to stare at the door he knew Pidge was behind. Should he apologize? Would she take it? Was he six years too late to start apologizing? No, she was definitely pissed with him longer than six years. And he decided, resolutely, he had no damn reason to apologize if Pidge wouldn’t do the same.

He found himself at the foot of Allura’s memorial, just the sting of those two words put together leaving a terrible taste in his mouth. Vanilla extract. Sounds good in theory, bitter and acrid on his tongue in actuality.

He hated this fucking memorial.

Lance looked down at the spot where he went down, a faint streak of red still remaining on the ground where he tried to desperately mop up his blood before someone else could see. Then slowly, quietly, Lance shimmied up the platform to the shrine and sat, back flushed against a marble foot. He let out a slow breath.

“I just wish you were here, you know?”

He talked a lot. He always did, but he found it easier to talk when he thought it was just him and Allura. She was an anchor, kept him sane when he found the farmwork to be slow and the world spinning a little too fast to find a foothold. He shifted his feet, the silence swelling. He couldn’t say those three words, because right now they didn’t sound any more useful than rotting leaves, and he sure as hell wasn’t saying them because he meant it.

Well, he  _ did  _ mean them. But not in the way she’d want him to mean it.

She probably figured that out by now.

“I wish you could… give me a sign. Help me fix this.”

Fix what, exactly?

“I think Keith was right. When we almost died, in space? About us not having anything keeping us together except the lions--” his voice snapped, despite himself. “Except you. And I hated him for saying it then, but he was right. Stupid fucking Keith, being right.”

That made him feel a little better. Stupid fucking Keith.  _ Yeah,  _ fuck Keith.

“I don’t think we can keep doing this without you, Allura.”

That came out a whisper, and Lance clamped his arms around himself, taking a shuddering breath, so afraid to say those words but relieved that he did, anyway. “I thought I could, fuck, I think we all did. But we can’t. We just can’t.”

Silence. As he expected to hear, and Lance dusted off his jeans and slid off the statue, stopping only to kiss his fingers and press them to her name carved into the base. He didn’t look up. He could never find it in his heart to look up, anymore.

And he made slow strides, back to the castle, back up to his room, stopping only because he smelled something familiar yet so strangely foreign all at once.

Backtrack, someone outside in the trees. The familiar scent of tobacco. His brother stopped smoking years ago, firstly, and secondly, he wasn’t even on Altea.

A mop of brown hair greeted him, sitting small and almost unnoticeable under a tree, a cigarette pressed between her lips, eyes half lidded, thumbing through something on her phone. Unexpected. Completely unexpected. Lance wondered if this was the sign that Allura was giving him.

Lance would never say bad things about Allura, but damn, did she have a funny way of showing she cared sometimes.

“Back for more?”

The voice startled him, and Lance forgot he was standing in front of Pidge, who was now looking up at him, taking a slow drag from the cigarette in her mouth.

“What are you doing?”

Stupid question.

“Just leaving.”

She got up in a single motion, stamping the cigarette out on the grass.

“When did you start doing that?”

“Stop pretending to give a fuck.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t talk to me, right now.” It came out short, and she shoulder-checked him as she passed, running a hand lazily through her hair. “Please. Leave me alone.”

And Lance was going to protest, but then it hit him. He didn’t have a right to. Not now. Not yet, not maybe ever.

And yet this was his sign, right? Had to be. One chance to undo about twenty years of wrong.

And all he could say was, “fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, slamming back in with another post-canon fic: it's different this time i promise  
> i mean probably not but post-canon fics are juicy with content and s8 gave me a lot to work with. i realized i was struggling writing other fics because, well, it's not this one. rolling up my sleeves as we speak.  
> idk where i'm going with this. then again, do i ever know where i'm going with things?? real talk??  
> OKAY!! that's all. i have to go to work. love you. kisses ur cheeks and runs
> 
> nadiarizavi @ tumblr


	2. step two: a list of things that can numb you

Shiro clicked his timer.

“You’re slacking,” he said, writing down the time without elaborating. Pidge wiped the sweat off her forehead, taking a shallow breath. “You do a really bad job of quitting, you know.”

Her nostrils flared at the accusation. “I  _ did  _ quit.”

“We wouldn’t be doing this if you did.” Shiro motioned for Pidge to get back in her starting position, and Pidge obliged, grinding her teeth to keep herself wounded together, not wanting to fall apart in front of Shiro for the second time that morning. Her muscles were burning, her heart thrummed in her chest. The timer went off with another click, and then she was off, feet pounding hard against cobblestone and sand; not an ideal track to run circles around, but better than no track at all.

She needed the cardio training. Especially now, when she woke up at the crack of dawn with a throbbing headache and a hand already reaching into her backpack for the almost-empty pack of cigarettes that she kept “just in case.” It’d been years since she quit. In fact, she was probably three years clean. She kept them as a reminder; a challenge really, a test for herself because Pidge knew the urge always came back, and playing cigarette roulette was a more addictive high than nicotine ever was.

Did she always get shot? Well, yeah.

Did that stop her?

Her footing stumbled, and Pidge let out a silent curse as she regained it, arms out to catch herself before her face met stone. 

Her greatest strength was her ability to recover from falls.

That was a joke.

She let out a bitter sigh, opting to walk the next leg around the castle, aware of the Altean groundskeepers and other staff that either stopped and stared to watch her leaden trek around the gardens or kept a wide berth around her path. She knew they talked about her. How, once upon a time, she was the great Green Paladin of Voltron, a hero, their hero. But now she was in  _ their  _ home turf, stumbling around the gardens with a clumsy swagger of a thirty year-old woman who had more than the recommended amount of vices.

She was also hungover. How she managed to make it to her fourth lap around the castle without hurling into the nearest bushes, Pidge had no fucking idea.

Eventually she picked up a slow trot, enjoying the cool early morning air, watching the sun rise over the mountains, the rosy haze of morning blanketing the gardens in dew and a pollen-dusted fog. She breathed in the air, sickly sweet. It’s all those fucking flowers, she’d bet her right arm on it. And her left, while she was at it.

Shiro was on the phone when she finally rounded the last corner and came back to him, too busy with his call to click the stopwatch off, so Pidge went and did it herself, deliberately resetting the watch to zero before either of them could see the number. Shiro noticed, naturally, giving her a tired expression before continuing the conversation he was having.

“Yeah, I think the yard might be too small. What about the one in West Point?”

It was Curtis, probably. Shiro let it slip at dinner that they were moving to a bigger place, the one good news shared at all last night. Planning for a family, finally, or something.

Pidge didn’t pretend that she wasn’t happy for them. She was. Shiro got to retire, got to get married to someone he could call home and got to take it easy. He deserved it. Out of all of them, Shiro deserved the picturesque love story and retirement the most.

Pidge waved at Shiro, and Shiro nodded.

“Pidge says hi. Yeah, finally. I was thinking it’d be the next year before she finally came back around.”

She stuck her tongue out, and Shiro let out a laugh, pressing his phone into his shoulder to muffle it before turning back to her. “Curt says hi, too.”

“Remind him that you need an herb garden.”

“We don’t  _ need  _ an herb garden.”

For the first time since landing on this ghost of a planet, Pidge found herself smiling. Shiro gestured that she was free to go, and before she could, he mumbled something to Curtis, dropping the phone and giving her a serious look.

“Hey, seriously though, Pidge. Thank you, for coming to me.”

She shifted her footing awkwardly, eyes not meeting his. He was going to give her the talk, eventually. It wasn’t every morning that Pidge stumbled to his room with her pants halfway on, forcing him to swear on Bob that he wouldn’t breathe a word about her relapse to her dad.

She felt the disappointment in his stare the second his door opened that morning, her hands holding herself steady against the frame of the door, aware of how absolutely fucking pathetic she looked. The way the world seemed to tilt and whirl and she had to squeeze her eyes shut before she upchucked all over the floor.

“Pidge?” He had asked, gentle, warm hands taking her by the shoulders and pulling her steady, easy, into his bedroom. She had to keep her body from betraying her, but she knew the scent was on her clothes, and judging by the way his eyes flickered with hurt first thing, she knew he already knew why she had shown up.

“Can you,” she had begun, her voice cracking in the way it always did when she felt the world crashing down around her. Here she was, a full grown adult, and she was about to beg him like she was still fifteen. “Can you please not tell my dad?”

He didn’t judge her, because Shiro never did. And he swore up and down that he wouldn’t tell, which was what she desperately wanted to hear. And it was early this morning, that Pidge and Shiro found a maid to help them wash her clothes thoroughly and get her something fresh to wear later, and it was early this morning that Shiro forced Pidge to stop loading the chambers and throw her personal pack of bullets into the trash.

Well, that was one step forward Pidge didn’t expect to be taking any time soon.

Shiro went back to his phone call after she gave him a nod and a cordial thank you, for just being awake that morning, and she kept up a slow pace around the gardens, one last round, water bottle in her hands and the warmth of mid-morning beginning to beat down on her shoulders. The adrenaline was fading, and she felt the ache in her legs, her lower back, her neck. She liked the ache. She had missed training, keeping her body in shape. She did what she could at the Garrison, if anything to keep up with the cadets during drills. At the minimum.

Pidge found her legs moving to the kitchen without even intending to. She didn’t have anywhere to be, none of them did, not until the next evening. Unintentionally, she hung just outside the swinging doors, inhaling the smells of breakfast, salivating, ravenous at the thought of a better meal than the small bites she forced herself to eat last night.

Last night.

Her head was beginning to pound again.

What the fuck did she  _ do  _ last night, and, worse, why did she feel so damn guilty about it?

“Pidge?”

A distraction. Exactly what she needed.

She turned around slow, unsurprised to find Hunk, who wrung his hands as he approached.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Morning.”

A pause. He looked between the doors and her, clearly wanting to say something else but unsure what the right thing to say was. He grew quieter, as the years trembled on. 

Hunk was a problem-solver, through and through, his mind was sharp and was able to find the root of issues faster than he could find the square root of 18,000. His heart was good, in the right place, all the time, and Pidge couldn’t help but feel sorry for herself. He was too good of a person to hurt him the way she did.

It was weird, when your best friend stopped picking up the wrench and threw his energy entirely into the kitchen, into smoothing over negotiations between alien councils that probably didn’t give a real damn about his secret to a perfectly roasted pork, or how good he was at getting a broken engine to stutter back to life. It was weird, six years ago, when Pidge shattered a glass against the floor of the very kitchen they were standing outside, and she called him a coward, and all Hunk could do was stare past her, quiet, not realizing he was burning the sausages. It was weird to not be on the same page, anymore, to be in entirely different books of entirely different genres and wondering how the fuck you used to be in sync in the first place.

She missed her best friend.

Not that she had the right to call him that, still.

“You want something to eat? Should be peanut butter in the pantry.”

She was surprised to find that he was addressing her, mumbling softly as he walked past her and into the kitchen, and all Pidge could do was follow. She finished off the last of her water, crinkling the biodegradable package in her fingers while Hunk bumbled around the cupboards, picking up different packages, scrutinizing the nutrition facts, replacing them, smelling them, piling them up on one of the central islands as he did. She rapped her knuckles against a counter, absentmindedly, until Hunk deposited a peanut-butter sandwich in front of her, crusts cut off, sliced diagonally down the middle.

“What am I, five?”

Hunk hesitated, hand still gripping the rim of the plate, and she could see the uncertainty in his eyes. Pidge held up a hand in surrender.

“Sarcasm, man. Thank you for the sandwich.”

The tension in his shoulders seemed to snap like a rubberband, and he finally released the plate, giving a quiet nod. “Yeah. Right, sarcasm. Tell me if it’s bad.”

“Pretty hard to fuck up a peanut butter sandwich.”

He didn’t answer, and Pidge didn’t wait for him to, instead biting into it like it was the first meal she’s had since crawling out of the desert. Hunk went back to cooking. Pidge let herself soak in the familiar comfort of an after-school snack, her heart refusing to slow it's erratic beat.

“Why’re you up early?” Hunk asked, the knife he was using to slice fruit hitting the cutting board with quiet clunks. Pidge cleared her throat.

“Doing laps around the castle. Didn’t realize this place was so huge.”

“Coran likes expanding it. Gives him something to do, work his architectural muscles.”

“He tell you that?”

“He did.”

A silence fell again, and Pidge brought her plate to the sink after she polished off the rest of the sandwich, realizing quickly that this wasn’t her kitchen at home, or the Atlas, or the Castle of Lions and, frankly, she didn’t know what was up or down.

She didn’t like feeling like a stranger. But she didn’t like calling Altea a home, either.

“How’s the diplomacy thing?” Pidge asked, having settled for just dropping the plate into the sink before walking over to the nearest island where Hunk worked and, with a couple of test pushes, hopped up onto the counter, erecting herself in a criss-cross position. “I feel like I haven’t asked you that, yet.”

“Were you supposed to ask me about that?”

She faltered, settling for a shrug. “I don’t know what else to ask you, Hunk.”

She felt like a failure, admitting that. This was  _ Hunk. _ The one person she should know. The one person she used to talk to with about everything.

And yet, she had no idea what she could say to him. Not anymore.

“Maybe ask if I’m alright,” Hunk said, and Pidge felt a lump form in her throat. “Maybe ask if I wanted you to still be here.”

This was different, than being yelled at by Lance. With Lance, she only ever expected to scream at him. With Hunk, the anger churned and slow-cooked until it caught her when she least expected it. Her hands folded on top of each other, the shame soaking in like a sponge.

“I…” she hesitated. Could she say sorry, right now? He’d never take her back. Things were never going to be the same, because she said things she shouldn’t have had in a hungover rage and Hunk couldn’t even look her in the eye when he talked.

“Should I go?” She finally said, already unfolding her legs, aware of the room closing in on her, aware of the fact that, really, absolutely, she wasn’t welcomed, this was a hostile zone, she had to get out of here before things got ugly.

But Hunk wasn’t Lance, and Hunk  _ definitely  _ wasn’t Pidge.

“Yeah. That’d be good. Thanks.”

No goodbye. No promise to stop by later with snacks or to find him to look at the latest project he had been working on, or promise to share a couple of cold drinks on the balcony and talk about his diplomatic missions. Nothing.

Pidge really, really wanted a smoke.

 

\--

 

“And the vigil planning’s going okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And how’s everyone? I mean, I see Pidge a lot, but how’s Hunk? He doing okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“... Keith still not cutting his hair?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know, I had fun today. Had to kill a guy for looking at Acxa the wrong way, but that’s just another Thursday, you know.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stabbed him right between his eyes and buried his body in the backwoods behind the house. Hope you don’t mind the bloodstains next time you come down.”

Lance stopped in his tracks, fumbling with his phone, that, until now, was balanced between his shoulder and ear. He sputtered into the receiver, once he got a hold of himself, eyes wide in horror.

“The fuck, Veronica?”

“I  _ knew  _ it. You weren’t listening to me.”

Oh. So he wasn’t.

He pinched the bridge of his nose-- then recoiled as sharp pain snapped him back into the present. He forgot he got decked, and the noise he made certainly didn’t help him regain his good standing with his sister.

“Lance? You okay?”

“I’m _ \--fuck-- _ I’m fine. Just, just tired. Super busy.”

“Did you step on a rake again?”

“I’m not--I’m not even outside, V.”

“But something  _ happened.” _

“Sure, if you wanna say getting punched in the face is something that happened.”

A pause, then Veronica sighed.

“Did you deserve it?”

“Probably.”

“Then I hold no grudges. Who did it?”

“Pidge.”

Another long pause.

“How’d you manage that?”

“What is this, twenty questions?”

“I want the deets, ugly. You know, I have Pidge on speed dial. I could easily cut out the middleman.”

Lance sat back down on his bed, groaning. Maybe he should’ve just let Veronica go to voicemail and deal with her wrath later. He’d prefer that to this conversation. But he also really, really liked hearing Veronica’s voice. He didn’t get to see her anymore, not after he decided to commit himself almost entirely to Altea. Lance worked on the farms spring through fall, now in the last ten years than he used to when he was younger. There was a desire in him to work, to push himself to the limit of every day, to feel the soil between his fingers and cultivate flowers and other crops with his own two hands. It kept him busy, and that was the important part.

As long as he was busy, he didn’t have to acknowledge the numbness.

“Lance? Hello?”

Right.

“I’m here.”

“Okay. Can you talk to me? Please?”

He let out a ragged sigh.

Out of all the people in the world he could talk to, Veronica used to be one of the easy ones. She got him in a way his other siblings didn’t, and she always had a good understanding of his problems, and always knew what to say, whether they were easy to fix or not.

This time, however, Lance didn’t think Veronica could say anything he hasn’t already heard.

“I’m okay, V. Really,” he was lying through his teeth, but Lance convinced himself this was for the best. “She’s just… I said something stupid, and she hit me. That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

“What, are you that unconvinced?”

“It’s just… Lance, what did you say?”

His mouth was turning dry, and Lance stood up again, hovering against his door, thinking carefully about what he could even say to her.

Yeah, Lance, what  _ did  _ you say?

“I told her to go home.”

 

\--

 

It felt like the day ended in a blink.

Lance trudged through the quiet castle hallways, basking in the silence, the fact that the number of Alteans roaming around had died to barely any giving him almost a sense of peace. He missed that, being able to roam a castle and have it lay empty. There was a bittersweetness to it; Allura never did grow used to the silence.

“It’s like… it feels like they’re all really gone, you know. They’re just… gone,” she said one night, in a rare moment where Lance found the two of them alone in a room. She had stared off into the hallway, eyes glazing over, her starlight hair floating behind her back like a sinking cloud. Lance remembered staring at her, her profile, the pitter-patter of his heart loud in his ears… and then she turned to face him.

He’d remember that melancholic, lonely gaze for the rest of his life.

Because it was how she looked at him when she said goodbye.

Lance squeezed his eyes shut, the heartbeat in his ears now more frantic, his throat closing.  _ Think about anything else,  _ he thought desperately.  _ Anything fucking else. _

For a castle so big, he really did feel so small.

And no matter how hard he tried, Allura was the only thing on his fucking mind.

Lance stamped his foot, hard, the sound echoing down the hall in all directions, a smack that startled him into bending over, hands hard over his knees. He let out a breath, shaky, a hundred thoughts of Allura running through his head, the weight on his back pressing down harder. Guilt and anger and a hollow emptiness over and over and over and over.

He should’ve made her feel safer.

He should’ve beg her to stay.

He should’ve loved her harder.

He shouldn’t have loved her at all.

“Oh, it’s all purple now.”

Lance looked up, feeling like he was moving through molasses, the voice reaching him from the top of a thirty foot well. Pidge.

Her face contorted, her head cocking to the side, the lock of hair that dangled over her face moving with it.

“The fuck’s wrong with you? Drunk?”

(Question of the fucking day, really.)

For a moment, Lance wondered if she would get angry again. If she’d yell, or if she’d just brush past him, leaving Lance to whatever state he was in, inebriated, sober.

But she just stood. Silent. Observing.

“Not drunk,” she finally said.

If he could find his voice, he’d say, “no shit.”

But Lance was pathetic and weak and so, so small.

It was a long time before Pidge spoke again.

“I’m not going to walk away.” Another pause, this time not so long. “Just nod or shake your head. Do you need a doctor?”

A shake.

“Water?”

She went through questions, and Lance shook his head with each one. It was strange, certainly, to have Pidge stand there and ask him what he needed while he stood doubled over like he was in the middle of puking up his guts. The strangest part? Pidge. The girl who socked him last night. The girl who, for six anniversaries, never had anything good to say to him. And answering her questions was an anchor; thinking about what he needed, if he needed anything; it unwound whatever spell he was under. And the thrumming in his head, every terrifying what-if and maybe that plagued him over Allura, died down to white noise.

“Fuck,” was the first thing Lance finally got to say.

“You  _ do  _ need water.”

“No.”

“Okay. You done?”

He gripped his knees a little tighter, refusing to look up at her. “I’m done.”

Pidge shuffled her feet, a sigh escaping her. “Does that happen often?”

This time, he did look up, bewildered. “Yeah.”

“You ever talk to anybody about it?”

“No.” Pause. “You’re being… nice.”

“Fuck you. We’re not talking about that.” She glared down at him, unmoving for a moment. “But it happens. It’s bound to fucking happen. Get someone to talk to about it before it eats you alive.”

Lance stood upright, slow, robotic, and that motion seemed to satisfy Pidge, because as soon as he opened his mouth, she turned to leave.

And then he saw them. And he pointed.

“You were going to smoke.”

That stopped Pidge’s steps, and she looked over her shoulder, brows narrowed. “You going to tell anybody?”

That was weird.

“Why would I tell anybody?”

For a moment, it seemed like Pidge had something to say, the angry fires in her eyes burning with some kind of vengeance. But just as quickly as they were lit, the fires died, and Lance saw an emptiness that was too painfully familiar.

“We didn’t see each other. Okay?”

It made his stomach twist in uncomfortable knots, but he couldn’t stop himself from nodding. “Okay.”

And then they heard it. A blood-piercing scream that made his stomach drop and made Pidge drop her box of cigarettes. They didn’t look at each other, their legs moving in sync down the hall, following the sound to, to…

To Shiro’s room.

And Lance knew exactly what was wrong.

Keith was there the second the other two were, and it didn’t take much effort to shove the door open, Hunk barreling in the room just as Lance slid across the floor, grabbing Shiro’s wrists to steady him while Keith took his shoulders, his neck.

“Shiro, wake up. Hey. Hey!”

Lance never let go of his wrists, not until his eyes snapped open and his breath came out ragged, as if they just ripped him from the water. He looked around, terrified, spittle escaping his mouth as he wheezed out a name,  _ her  _ name--

_ “Allura.  _ Wh-where’s--”

Keith squeezed his shoulders, forcing the older man to stare him in the eye. “Hey. Hey. Shiro. Come back to us.”

It was a tense few minutes, waiting for Shiro to calm down, for the fear in his eyes to recede and the fatigue hit him, gazing around the room slow. 

And when his eyes flitted onto Pidge, she felt the guilt hit her like an ion cannon blast.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” she managed to say, and before anyone could stop her, Pidge left.

Keith looked between her, and Shiro, and then his eyes flicked to Lance. “Lance, will you--the fuck happened to your face?”

Lance forgot his nose almost entirely. He coughed. “I was thinking about getting a nose job, obviously.”

Shiro snorted, and the sound was enough to put Lance at ease. He was fine. He was going to be fine.

“It’s a bad nose job,” Shiro managed, sweat beading on his forehead, and Hunk, silent as he had been, gently dabbed a cloth against his head. “But Keith’s right. See if she’s okay.”

“What about you?”

“It’ll pass, Lance. It always does.”

He almost retorted. Almost.

But he relented, leaving the others, surprised to find Pidge sitting right outside the door, head buried in her knees. Lance cleared his throat to alert his presence, and Pidge didn’t move.

“I’m not gonna walk away. So if you, like, have something to say--”

“He looked so happy this morning. He was talking to Curtis and he just, he just seemed so fucking happy, Lance.”

She had pulled her head up, empty eyes staring straight ahead, red and bleary. Lance ran his sweating palms over the fabric of his jeans. He didn’t say anything. Hell, he had no idea what to say. Lance didn’t see Shiro that morning, no; but she was right. He remembered the wedding, he remembered how much Shiro talked about his husband, their future plans, how there was always a glitter in his eye and a dimple in his cheek ever since the war ended.

Shiro didn’t just survive--he was  _ thriving. _ Glowing. A beacon of light and hope for everyone who fought the war.

And it seemed to hit Lance just then that his light turned off just like everybody else’s.

“Are we ever going to just be fucking  _ happy, _ Lance?”

Her voice sounded raw, broken, and unconsciously, Lance scratched at his markings.

“I don’t fucking know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading <3
> 
> @nadiarizavi on tumblr


	3. step three: what's the problem with hand me downs?

They didn’t talk about it.

It might have been just because they were busy today--it was Vigil Day, after all-- but they didn’t talk about it. Shiro called Curtis to let him know what happened, and Hunk and Keith told Coran first thing over breakfast. Lance was being dragged this way and that by Alteans to prepare for the broadcast, and Pidge…

Pidge was flushing down a box of cigarettes.

The toilet gurgled in protest on the second flush, and Pidge furrowed her brows at it. “I know they’re fucking disgusting, but one of us has to take them.”

The toilet didn’t answer, only twirling the soaked, crumpled box of cigarettes in the bowl, as if testing her again.  _ One more spin of the chamber, Pidge. Your finger was already on the fucking trigger. _

She pushed the flushing mechanism a third time, already resigning herself to the fact that, well, the toilet wasn’t much interested in smoking, either. She almost didn’t notice the mouse crawling up her shoulder, the weight a familiar comfort as it settled into the side of her neck, squeaking curiously in her ear. Pidge sighed, fishing the wet ball of cardboard and filters and tobacco out of the bowl, her lip jutted out, eyes flicking between the wad and the mouse--Chuchule.

“Don’t smoke, okay?” Pidge said calmly, and Chuchule’s whiskers twitched at the request. “It’s bad for mice.”

Her fingers itched, despite herself, and Pidge slammed the wad into the trash with a resounding thunk.

It made her stomach churn.

She washed her hands and set Chuchule on the ground, unsure where the other mice were. It was weird, to be bothered by one and not see the others nearby. She figured the mice were nearly inseparable.

Same could be said for another group of mammals, really.

Chuchule squeaked once, running a lap around Pidge before stopping in front, eyes bright and what Pidge figured was a smile on her face. Pidge raised a brow.

“You think I should do laps.”

A nod.

“You wanna run them with me?”

Chuchule mimed someone-- a frown, chin lowered, a pantomime of a ponytail.

“With Keith?”

Another nod, a squeak. Pidge gave the mouse a smile.

“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Where is he?”

And Chuchule took off down the hall.

It was a bit harrowing, trying to keep up with a mouse running faster than her through castle halls, narrowly avoiding Alteans carrying stacks of plates and catered food for the evening, being shouted at in curses that she memorized when she was still a teen, because, well, whose first priority  _ wasn’t  _ to memorize the dirtiest, rotten words in a new language?

But sure enough, Chuchule lead her to the training deck, where Keith was tearing a training dummy into a pile of dust with his… his…

_ Bayard sword. _

Chuchule let out a squeak from the floor, and Pidge bent down to pick the mouse up before clearing her throat, making her presence known, just as Keith’s bayard transformed itself back into nothing more than a handle. She tried not to stare at it, the bayard.

Pidge hated the bayards.

He threw her a shy smile.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine. Are you?”

“Yeah. Just… catching up on lost time.” He lifted the bayard half-heartedly, looking between her and the handle. “You’re out of breath.”

“I was chasing Chuchule down.”

Chuchule squeaked, as if she were a part of the conversation. Keith nodded, letting out a breath, and Pidge didn’t have to hear the words to know exactly what Keith was about to say.

“About last night--”

“He’s fine, right?” She interrupted, almost on instinct. Her chest tightened, her palms turned hot. Stop talking. Stop  _ talking. _

Keith startled, brows raising. “Yeah. Shiro’s fine.”

“Then we don’t have to talk about it.”

He bit his lip, frowning. “I think we should. It’s… Fuck, I’m rusty at this.”

Pidge’s eyes refocused on the bayard, and her arms folded over her chest. The words tumbled out before she could stop them, because her fingers were itching for a cigarette, because she wasn’t in the mood right now to hear Keith lecture her about team and family and whatever. “Then why  _ are  _ you trying, Keith?”

Arrow to the chest, really. Pidge let out a sigh when Keith didn’t answer.

“Jeez. I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve been really testy, Shiro won’t let me smoke and Lance caught me with my smuggled contraband and--”

“You brought cigarettes to New Altea?”

“Like you didn’t bring your swords.”

“Swords and nicotine are pretty different things, Pidge. And I thought you quit.”

“I did quit! Today.”

Chuchule squeaked, and Pidge remembered suddenly why she was here. She interrupted him before he could open his mouth to respond.

“I… I wanted to ask you something.”

“If it’s advice you’re looking for--”

She punched him in the arm, a snort escaping her. “No. Never. Just… run with me?”

Keith paused, his expression unreadable, and Pidge found herself wondering again. Wondering about what went through Keith’s head half the time. She thought she had him figured out; sometimes he was a hothead and difficult, sometimes he was courageous and a leader when he needed to be. But that was all those years ago, when the stakes of the universe were high and Keith didn’t have room to be anything else besides a hothead or a leader.

“Run with you?”

“Yeah,” Pidge said, a breath escaping her. “Gotta keep yourself active with all the space travel and stuff. The gravity on New Altea isn’t that off from Earth, but just the right amount of unnatural that we gotta run around so we don’t turn all  _ soupy.” _

A ghost of a smile formed on his lips. “You sound more like yourself.”

“Yeah? Didn’t realize I changed all that much.” She turned away, and was surprised to find Keith following.

“Of course you did--”

“That sounds like the beginnings of a monologue,” she interrupted, again. “Save it for the memorial, will you?”

He smiled, fully this time, checking her hip with his own in good nature.

“No.”

 

\--

 

They did four laps. Three and a fourth, if either of them wanted to be accurate, but there was a silent agreement to just say four. The grass was cool, and the wind lifted Pidge’s bangs out of her eyes, and she stared up into the vast blue sky, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. She stole a glance at Keith, scrutinizing the scar on his face, then his expression--serene, his eyes closed and he was unmoving, save for the rise and fall of his chest.

She felt deeply guilty, to look at him now.

“Can I tell you something?” Pidge said, finally.

“You finally want advice.” Keith said, his body never moving.

“No. Yes. Maybe.”

“Shoot.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for tonight.”

Silence fell between them, and Pidge waited, opening and closing her fists, debating on throttling Keith for a response-- he still wasn’t moving, that  _ dickhead,  _ if he fell asleep--

“I’m never ready for tonight.”

It came as a quiet mumble, and Keith folded his arms over his chest. Pidge mirrored the gesture. “The first couple of times, it felt real. To give speeches, about the new era of peace and remembering the ones we lost...”

Plural, lost. 

He never said her name. 

Never. 

Pidge didn’t notice it at first, but even when the speeches turned to Altea, to Allura--he always handed it off to Lance, or Coran. He never looked at the statue. Keith was not the most verbose of the team, no, but he certainly  _ felt  _ the most. He had to have been, right?

Subconsciously, or perhaps on purpose, Pidge reached for his hand; an unconscious fist, clenched and gripping at the grass as if that was the only thing tethering him here. And she wanted, just for a second, to remind him she was there, too.

He flinched.

Pidge moved further away.

“Does it not feel real anymore?” she finally asked, and Keith let out a sigh.

“It feels… proprietary. Like, we’re just putting on a big show just to make sure everyone remembers the sacrifices,” Keith opened his eyes, finally, squinting in the light. “Every year. We make the universe remember this every  _ fucking  _ year, as if we aren’t remembering it every fucking day.”

He said it with fire, a low growl at the back of his throat, and Pidge felt the heat, the surface of the sun. She focused on the breeze again, thinking for a long moment.

“New scars heal slow when you keep picking at ‘em,” she finally said. Keith snorted.

“Profound.”

“That’s what my mom told me after I got some gnarly scabs when I was thirteen.”

“What were you doing?”

“I fell off the roof while packing up Matt’s telescope, right into her hydrangea bushes.”

It was nice, then, to laugh. To feel something other than dread.

“We got off track. You wanted advice?”

“Well, I just wanted to tell you I decked Lance in the face.” She watched, waited for his expression to change, to be surprised, but when it didn’t, Pidge continued. “Also, I’m not wearing the suit. I decided that, just now.”

That made him raise a brow. “You know Coran’s not gonna like that.”

“I know.” She thought about earlier, when she found Keith training, the bayard sword in his hand. How it was a symbol, how the bayard fit so perfectly in her hand and molded itself just for her, how the armor always fit like a glove, how she was destined. Destined for greatness, to be the green paladin, how Allura had told her with so much faith that this was who she was. When she confided in Shiro, when he encouraged her into the forest of a planet that was once just a fantasy, part of a universe that twisted and untwisted and was only just so out of her grasp. Her father’s words, her personal mantra.

Go, be great. Go, be great.

And Pidge had been. She had been great, when they first formed Voltron. She had been great, when she found her brother and father. She had been great, when they defeated Zarkon, and defeated Lotor, and defeated Haggar.

But still, space was  _ great- _ -but it was empty, too.

And there was no greatness in an empty suit.

Pidge shrugged, finally.

“It just doesn’t fit right anymore.”

 

\--

 

She at least wore her Garrison uniform, after coming to that compromise with Coran.

He doted on her, adjusting her glasses and smoothing out the kinks in her hair, the wrinkles on his face looking so much deeper and darker than Pidge had ever seen them. She didn’t understand the joy in being a leader, and she couldn’t fathom the work that Coran had been doing since Altea was restored.

Someone had to lead, evidently.

“There. Now you look halfway like your old self!”

Pidge stepped back from him, scrutinizing her appearance in the mirror. She did have chronic baby face. How rude of him to remind her. He smiled behind her, a hand running through his own hair. She turned back to him, frowning.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Anything for you, number five,” he beamed, and his hand reached out for her, gently pinching her chin. “Look at you. It’s been such a joy to watch you grow up, all these years.”

She took his hand, giving it a squeeze. “I still throw temper tantrums.”

“Don’t we all,” he sighed, taking a seat in the chair across from her, and to her surprise, Coran held both of her hands in his, swinging them gently from side to side. “Now, do you want to talk about it, or should I leave it alone?”

“Talk about what?”

“Well, I had to help unclog the plumbing system today after mysterious Earth cylinders turned up in the toilets. And the mice are very fascinated by Lance’s nose.”

“And you pointed both of those things to me?” Pidge asked, head cocking, hoping she sounded innocent enough.

“You know, Chuchule is not the  _ best  _ one to confide in.”

She smiled despite herself. “I’m starting to see that, yeah.”

“Pidge, if this is about what happened six deca-phoebs ago…”

“It’s not. I mean it is, but… I think it’s a bit of everything.”

And she found herself talking, as she did when she felt nervous, at Coran. About the last two days. About the guilt and the cigarettes and Shiro’s nightmare. About Lance, and Allura, and he winced when she said her name, because no matter how many times her name was said someone always, always winced. And she talked about the armor, and her father, and her new job as a trainer, and she talked about Keith and how she missed Hunk. And she talked about her decision.

“I’m not going to come back after this, Coran.” Pidge said, and by then her mouth was dry and her ribcage was empty and there was numbness in her fingers, clenched tightly now between his silken gloves. “I don’t want to be a part of Voltron anymore.”

Coran gave her a serious look, his mustache bristling as he pondered something to say. He probably had a lot, tens of thousands of years of wisdom all bundled into him. She had no idea how he could be so…  _ himself,  _ despite it all.

“Why?”

That was all he wanted to ask?  _ Why? _

She frowned. “All we ever do now is just… smile for the cameras and fight when they’re gone. Proprietary shit.”

“You really are spending a lot of time with Keith,” Coran released her hands, standing up. “So, did you want my diagnosis now or before you go home?

“Diagnosis?”

“Yes. I think, perhaps, you’ve just forgotten how to be a paladin.”

The thought to yell at Coran crossed her mind for a second. Of course she hadn’t forgotten. She couldn’t fucking  _ escape  _ being a paladin for even five seconds.

“Coran, I’m trying to  _ quit--” _

“Exactly.” He squeezed her shoulders. “You’re trying to quit.”

“This isn’t motivational.”

“I’m not speaking to be motivational. Pidge, paladins-- what Allura wanted, what this universe needed-- aren’t untouchable gods. You’re only human.” His brow furrowed, and, to Pidge’s surprise, he pulled her into a hug. 

“And I’m sorry, if I ever made you feel like you had to be more than just that.”

She buried her face into his jacket-- fresh linen.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Coran.”

He let out a breath; choked up, and his voice was small.

“But there were things that I didn’t do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my eyes are about to fall out of my head but whew! i don't have excuses only apologies. this chapter ended up very, very long, and i realized with horror that, oh my god, why didn't i just cut it in half?  
> so, well, i cut it in half, obviously, and that's the half you're looking at now hahaha  
> thank you so much for your patience and love. i hope i can do these guys justice, as always, and i hope your day is well.
> 
> thank you, for reading. for being great.
> 
> @nadiarizavi on tumblr


	4. step four: how to mourn and not lie to your friends

“... And we honor those we lost…” Keith tapered off, and his eyes jumped to Lance, and Lance thought, briefly, to leave the man hanging. But despite the thought, Lance couldn’t bring himself to do that. He took the microphone outstretched to him, and he focused on the camera in his face. Not the crowd of Alteans, on tip-toes and holding their own cameras. Just the one.

“Princess Allura,” Lance said, and he flicked his eyes behind him, to her statue, tall and grand and frozen and lifeless. “Without her, who knows what the universe could have been?”

Without her. What it could have been.

How ironic.

He gave the same speech he always did, about Allura. She was kind, and smart, and a leader. She was a friend, family, lover. She was everything. She was why they had a chance. She should be remembered. She had to be remembered.

His eyes trailed to Coran, who stared blankly ahead. And then he found Romelle in the crowd, who gave him an encouraging smile, and Lance worked around the lump in his throat.

“Allura’s sacrifice… it should be celebrated. Not mourned.”

Fake. It sounded so fake, now. He was sure it was sincere before. Once upon a time, Lance meant every word he said. But years of recitation changed the meaning, the connotation. Muscle memory, at its best. Lies, lies at its worse.

He was met with thunderous applause, so suddenly. Was he finished? He didn’t even notice he gave his closing statement. His body moved without his permission, back in line, between Keith and Pidge.

Coran gave his closing speech--Pidge and Hunk never wanted to stand at the podium, not in recent years. Lance missed Hunk’s speeches, about peace and friendship and diplomacy. And in a way he missed Pidge’s speeches, about little things making a difference. About greatness.

There was more applause. Lance squeezed his eyes shut. Just two parts left, and he remembered with a twinge of guilt that after those two things, Pidge would leave. Gone. Probably for forever.

The first part was the fireworks, which never failed to make him jump out of his skin, despite how hard he prepared himself. Coran insisted the fireworks were essential, while fanfare played and viewers at home got commentary from omnipotent reporters. They’d pose for pictures while the bombs went off--not bombs.

Not bombs.

He clenched his teeth as the camera flashed, and then the lions roared, and flew off, right into the nebula that looked too much like Allura; the grand finale. He wasn’t quite sure, ever, if that was deliberate. If that was where she was, now. Or if he was tricking himself into believing that she was anything more than just gone.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The paladins marched off the stage, into the castle, into the dining hall where they sat and ate and chatted before sleeping it off and going home the next day. Lance never went home, of course. It was planting season. He had a promise to keep. Empty, surely, but a promise nonetheless.

Pidge clapped her hands together, suddenly. Lance had been avoiding her all day, naturally. Since Shiro’s nightmare, since she decked him. Pidge was getting harder and harder to be around.

Part of him was guilty, of course, that she was going to leave. She never brought it up since, but if Lance knew her like he thought he did, she was still a stubborn ass and she’d leave for good. But another part of him told himself that that was her own decision.

Or something.

“I’m gonna take a breather,” Pidge said. Her eyes fell to him, and then she looked away just as quickly.

“You’re not gonna eat?” Shiro asked, and she gave him a soft smile.

“Not hungry. I’ll uh… I’ll see you guys.”

And she left, without fanfare, without explosions, without a goodbye.

And it was like clockwork. One step forward, two steps backwards, with Pidge. One minute, it was like he understood her and they could be at peace again, and the next, she was pissing him off.

God, how self important did she think she was?

Lance looked between his remaining friends at the table, fingers drumming against the surface of his own accord. He was angry. Of course he was angry. Pidge had the nerve to punch him in the face and yell and smoke and act like she cared about him for even a fucking second-- then had the audacity to leave without acting like a decent human being? Fuck that. Fuck her.

He got up from the table hard, startling Shiro and Hunk, and the guilt planted another seed without his permission. He cleared his throat.

“I’m gonna go check on her.”

He didn’t wait for permission or for questions, because Lance had a bone to pick with this absolute dramatic piece of shit, and he didn’t have time to explain it to anyone. He checked her guest room first, busting into the room without knocking, surprised to find it already empty and spotless. Spotless. A word he’d never associated with Pidge ever in his life, but everything about New Altea was strange and uncomfortable and suffocating that the bare bones of a bedroom that wasn’t really hers didn’t surprise him.

She’d be with the lions already, and Lance found himself running. He was still in his paladin uniform, the uniform that fit him so well, the uniform that stopped matching his lion but matched  _ her  _ lion and it only made him miss the ocean salt

(and her)

\--And he couldn’t look at Blue, not like he used to, not like he  _ wanted  _ to--

An invisible hand squeezed his heart, and Lance had to slow down to keep himself from falling into the deep end. Now wasn’t the time, as if any time was the right time to swan dive into a dark, unforgiving sea.

He caught Pidge climbing into Green. Just in time.

One step forward.

“Only assholes leave without saying goodbye,” Lance shouted across the hangar, half jogging to the lion, to Pidge, who stared at him, frozen in posture as she prepared to climb into Green. She was scowling when he got close enough to see her face.

“I think we’ve well established by now that I’m an asshole.”

He didn’t respond, only clambered up Green’s paw, and Pidge stuck her foot out, planting it firmly against his chest once he got close enough. She was glaring at him.

“I’ll break your nose again.”

“You won’t.”

There was hesitation, and Lance wondered, for a horrified second, if she really would.

But then she didn’t, still holding him at a distance with her leg. “Why’d you follow me?”

“You’re missing dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah, but it’s totally against every law in the universe to leave without eating food. You’ll get hungry on the ride home.”

“I have snacks.”

“Wow! Sounds like you thought of everything.”

She glowered, kicking off his chest, and Lance held his balance against the lion’s open jaw. He watched her clamber into the cockpit, and Lance let out an irritated sigh as her voice echoed through the open hatch.

“Yeah, I fucking did!”

“Well, you didn’t think to say bye!”

Two steps back.

He followed her through, and Pidge let out an undignified groan at the sight of him popping in through the hatch, rattling on. “You’re so fucking  _ selfish _ , Pidge. You don’t wear the paladin armor, you stopped making your speech, you’re leaving without giving anyone a goddamn explanation--”

“You want an _explanation?”_ She threw her hands up, turning to face him fully. “The explanation is that I _hate_ you! I hate you, and I hate this memorial bullshit, and I hate that every fucking time we’re here you try to control me like I’m not stable enough to handle any of this shit myself--”

“Because you obviously can’t handle anything! You’re running away! All you’ve ever done since you had your big dramatic meltdown six years ago has been running away!”

“At least I’m trying to get a fucking move on with my life, Lance!” She gestured outside, her voice raising. “There’s nothing keeping me here because I’m not going to spend the rest of my fucking life trying to atone for  _ her  _ choice!  _ Her _ choice! It was  _ her--” _

There was a hiss, and a rumble, and Pidge and Lance grabbed for each other in reflex, steadying on their feet. The lights on the panels flickered on, and beneath them, Green stood up.

“Oh no. Oh fuck, no.” Pidge said, releasing her grip on Lance’s arms and rolling into her seat, pressing buttons and jiggling the handle. “Fuck! Green, don’t be a goddamn--”

And Green lurched forward. Lance fumbled, grabbing the back of Pidge’s chair, motion sickness hitting him like a train.

“The fuck’s she doing?”

“Going rogue,” Pidge said, a whine in her voice as she slapped the console in front of her. “Green, please, I really don’t have any time for you to--”

They were met with a roar that rattled teeth, and Lance’s gut sank. They were being kidnapped. By a lion.

And he had an even worse sinking feeling that he knew who was orchestrating this.

And in terms of ranking the worst memorial anniversaries, Lance suddenly had a shoe-in for first place that wasn’t the infamous Pidge Meltdown.

Pidge continued to slap buttons on the console, cursing and smacking any panel on the cockpit she could hit. Lance’s grip tightened on the back of her seat, as Green lurched up, and went right into the fastest possible speed, and--

“Wormhole,” Lance managed to squeak out as Pidge shouted, “no, no, no, no,  _ no!” _

There was the familiar feeling of his atoms being squished and melting into lightspeed, as the wormhole pulled Green and her victims in, spitting them out into empty space--wrong, there was a nebula, or galaxy, or something, a smattering of stars in purple and red smoke, directly ahead. Green slowed her speed, and then…

And then Green shut down.

And Pidge let out a scream.

Lance wasn’t sure what kind of scream it was at first; either she was screaming in the same fashion a toddler would in a toy store, or it was panic. It only was another second for him to realize what it was, when the sound was replaced by choking, by gasping for air, and she pulled her knees up close, hands shaking and clammy and clutching onto the sides of her chair as if for dear life. He knew the feeling. Or he thought he did. Because right then, Lance didn’t feel anything. He was in space. He was kidnapped by a big stupid lion probably working for his dead girlfriend, and he was stranded in space with the one person who he didn’t want to be stranded with in any situation, ever.

(Well, that was a lie. Pidge was resourceful. She was probably the best person to be stranded with in any given survival situation.)

But right now, her voice was wracked with sobs, and Lance snapped back into the moment. His stomach lurched again, and he remembered how to work his legs, all anger towards Pidge evaporating. Now wasn’t the time. They were stuck in space again, and Lance forced himself to not think about the other times they were stranded in an empty vacuum and how small he felt, because she needed him. She needed him, because they both couldn’t afford to freak out right now. One step.

“Deep breaths,” his voice came out strained, carefully stepping around the pilot seat to squat in front of her, hands gently closing over hers, trembling, so much smaller than his, so pale and cold. “Easy, easy breaths.”

“... Hard,” Pidge said, and she shuddered into sobs again, sobs that made her body twitch and convulse. “Go away.”

“Oh, I’d  _ love  _ to go away, but I don’t really have anywhere to go out here.”

She let out a laugh, poorly concealed, and Lance was, for the first time since that morning, relieved. He squeezed her hands, anchoring her to him, letting out a heavy breath he forgot he was holding. “Just… just take your time.”

It was two, maybe three hours, that Lance sat in front of her, holding onto her cold, shaking, sweating hands for dear life. They didn’t speak. There was no reason to, not yet, not when the silence was so welcoming after being filled with so much hot air and yelling and anger. Lance didn’t know what to say, definitely, and he wondered if Pidge felt the same. She was trying to get a move on, or something.

In a way, that made sense. He got it. Of course he wanted to move on.

And then he remembered the marks beneath his eyes, and he felt the guilt shoot through him. He couldn’t move on. Not after that. Never after that.

He stole a glance at Pidge, who, by now, had sat up straighter in her chair, eyes squeezed tight, her breathing more even than it was before. She didn’t pull away from his hands, and Lance wondered, for a horrified minute, if Pidge slipped right into a coma. Her hair was matted and stuck to her forehead, and there were bags under her eyes, heavy and dark, and Lance remembered looking in the mirror that morning, the day before, the year before. He used to care so much, didn’t he? He used to care.

He wasn’t sure if he was thinking about his appearance still, or something else entirely.

Finally, Pidge wiggled her fingers, and Lance dropped his grip, sliding on his butt backwards against the cool console behind him, and Lance leaned his head back, grateful for the reprieve. Pidge cleared her throat.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“What?”

She opened her eyes, groggy and red. “You know.”

“I’ve seen you at worse.”

She gave him a weak smile, one that made his chest ache for a time gone by, when Pidge used to smile a lot more. Her eyes floating out the window, to the stars staring back at them. “And I’m sorry, for punching you in the face.”

“I’m sorry for giving you a reason to punch me in the face.”

She frowned. “I… yeah. But I wasn’t thinking. I was drunk, and an asshole.”

Lance shrugged. “You were mad.”

“Yeah, but angry people can’t just go around punching people in the face.” She frowned hard, shaking her head. “And I… fuck. I’m so bad at this.”

She stood up, swaying, and Lance almost threw his arms around her legs to keep her upright. But Pidge steadied herself quick, walking away from the chair towards the back of the small space, talking as she did. “I’m sorry, for implying you couldn’t move on.”

Lance frowned at her. “Why the hell are you apologizing for everything?”

She gestured around the cockpit, her voice dropping.

“Cause I think Green’s listening in and won’t let us go home--” she caught herself, correcting almost instantaneously. “--New Altea. Green won’t let us go back to New Altea unless we fix us. Or that’s my working hypothesis.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear you say _ hypothesis.” _

She raised one fist, flipping him the bird, before continuing. “We have to fix us.”

“There’s nothing to fix, Pidge,” Lance said, rolling onto the pads of his feet and standing up, arms outstretched. “We were never gonna be best friends forever. You said it yourself. Nothing’s keeping us here except…”

Except.

Her name was unspoken, and Lance noticed, for the hundredth, maybe thousandth time, Pidge averted her gaze from his face. Lance cleared his throat.

“I feel like if we’re gonna fix us, you’re gonna have to start looking me in the eye, Pidge.”

She fell silent, pacing the cockpit for a few moments, lips forming a thin line. She never turned to look at him, not for long. Then Pidge shook her head.

“I loved Allura.”

She said it plainly, so plain that Lance had to take a moment to process it.

“Huh?”

“I said I loved her, Lance.” She stopped her pacing, eyes looking past him, at the nebula behind him. “She never gave up on me, and I loved her for that. And I could never resent her for anything, no, but…”

Six years ago, she told him and everyone that she hated her. Hated. Hated everything Allura stood for, everything she had done. And here she was now, telling him she loved her. Lance had to take a moment, frowning at her as Pidge trailed off.

“You changed your mind about hating her?”

“No.” she shook her head. “I changed my mind about loving her. She… she was always so, so big and grand. Everything we did? It felt astronomically small in comparison.”

She pinched her fingers together as she spoke, sniffling. “And the fact we couldn’t fucking save her, Lance, that made me feel smaller than any atom in the universe. And the only proof we have that we were  _ there _ , and we could’ve done  _ something  _ about it, fuck, it’s on your fucking face.”

His breath hitched, and Lance wondered for a second if the hatch popped open and he was drowning alive in the vacuum of space.

“That’s…” He took a minute to breathe, and he felt the Altean marks sear his skin, and he held himself back from touching them, from acknowledging their existence, brutally aware that these marks created a wedge between himself and his friends. “Does, does everyone feel the same way?”

He knew the answer, of course. Of course he knew, because it was the thing that Lance kept rationalizing to himself for why Pidge never looked at him, why Keith never did, why no one could stare at him for long and if they did they wore masks of pity or anger or grief or utterly nothing. And it made him wish, again, that Allura never gave him the only gift she had for him.

Pidge didn’t answer, naturally. She didn’t need to. Lance took a seat in the pilot’s seat, staring out at the expansion of stars in front of him. Stars. Endless, infinite, hundreds of thousands of millions of billions of years of stars. He closed his eyes.

“I… I think I get what you mean.” He didn’t know if Pidge left to check on her supplies, but he had to let her know. To let anybody know. “You don’t have to live with this on you forever, though.”

There was a pregnant silence, followed by Pidge’s voice, small and far away. “You don’t like the marks either.”

“I thought I could,” Lance continued, a crack in his voice that he didn’t expect. “I really, really thought I could. But if you want me to be perfectly honest?”

He opened his eyes, refocusing on the space in front of him, the space between him and Allura and the universe and, presently, Pidge. He sought out his reflection in the glass, the blue marks beneath his eyes that seemed to shine in response to the balls of gas just outside of his reach. There was an ache in his chest, heavy and pounding. He could feel Green, listening in, right over his shoulder, a secret messenger to the girl with hair the color of starlight, to the first girl he ever loved, or maybe never loved at all.

There comes these moments, rare and brutal, where the stars bear witness to the deepest truths of oneself, and there are no boundaries or pretenses. And Lance knew if he didn’t seize the moment, he didn’t know when he would. Even if she was listening, even if he knew, then, that what he would say would break both of their hearts.

Lance, Green Lion, message to the Heart of the Universe:

“I’m not in love with her.”

A beat passed in silence. Green didn’t move, and if Allura was listening, she didn’t have anything to say.

“Of course you are.”

“I mean, yeah. I was a teenager and she was the most beautiful girl in the universe,” Lance twisted his head around to face Pidge, who had retreated to the back of the cockpit, brows furrowed at him, arms folded over her chest. “But… I don’t know. I don’t know if the timing was right, anymore. If I just fell in love with her because she was there, or if it was because I just felt so alone…”

He trailed off. Pidge gave him a look of pity. But at least she was looking at him.

“The timing was right.” She said it simply. “You guys were good together.”

“Were we?” Lance touched a mark, unconsciously. “It… it doesn’t feel that way. Or maybe I just can’t remember it being that way.”

“Because she  _ died, _ Lance,” there was a strain in her tone. “Her death changed a lot of things, your memories of her included. And your face.”

“And my face.” Lance snorted. Then he stopped, staring at Pidge hard across the room, whose gaze dropped from his, a hand running through her hair, tense. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, her death did change a lot of things.”

Lance wondered if they were thinking the same thing, as silence filled the space between them. If Pidge was wondering the same questions he was, if she was hoping for the same thing that he was. But in honesty, Lance didn’t know what he was hoping for. If he was hoping for an apology, or a lifeline, or a hug goodbye. He didn’t know.

And Pidge didn’t know, either.

She stared at her hands, shaking her head, guilt tangling her intestines together. Because she knew, logically, the only way this conversation could go. The only thing she could say, because Pidge and Lance weren’t friends and never were, and she could never take back the things she said, and because, finally, she had made up her mind.

“Lance, I can’t stay with Voltron.”

Lance didn’t say anything, his expression wavering for a moment to one of surprise.

“You’re still gonna leave, even after this?”

There was a knee-jerk reaction in her, to tell him to go fuck himself, to chew him out. But space travel made her tired, and she realized, suddenly, how draining it was to keep yelling at him with no cigarette or hard liquor to follow. Pidge slumped hard against the back wall, nodding her head.

“I can’t keep doing this.” She gestured at him. “Fighting. I… I have to move on, Lance. I’d be so much happier if I could just get over it.”

“You and I both know there’s no getting over it, Pidge.” Lance turned away, finally, eyes back out on the nebula. “If we could get over it, I don’t think we’d be here.”

She bit her lip, and between that line and the thousands of things she could retort with rolling over in her mind, there was a hum of an engine, and Green let out a reassuring purr. Pidge let out a gasp, a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and like routine, her legs carried her to the pilot’s seat, unceremoniously squeezing into the chair with Lance. He startled at her motions, clutching the armrests, a stutter in his words.

“D-did we finally do her bidding?”

“Yeah,” Pidge said, breathless, and she gripped the gear shift, easing into the rhythm and hum of her lion. “She’s taking us home.”

“New Altea,” Lance mumbled next to her, leaning back to let Pidge take control of the lion. Pidge winced, nodding.

“Yeah, my bad. New Altea.”

She looked once more, out the viewing port, to the nebula that twinkled and rocked in front of them, before the wormhole open and sucked them through. Witnesses, she thought, as the wormhole sparked and spat them out back outside New Altea’s atmosphere, the comm crackling back to life.

“Pidge? Where the hell did you go? Where’s Lance?” Keith’s voice came over, an edge to his tone, and next to her, Lance let out a hollow laugh.

“Aw, Keith! You missed me! I’ve been waiting years to finally hear you--”

“--You know what? Just jettison him out the airlock. Leader’s orders.”

She smiled, despite herself, before focusing on Green, landing her gently back into the hangar with a pat against the seat. Lance removed himself, quickly, standing up with a quiet stretch. A beat in silence. Lance cleared his throat.

“So, we’re not going to talk about any of this again, are we?”

She gave him a nod. Lance nodded back.

“Are you gonna leave? Once I get out of here?”

Her guts twisted again, and Pidge gave the seat another unconscious pat.

“I think everyone deserves a goodbye, Pidge.” Lance said, and she watched him carefully, as he lifted a hand to his eye, to rub at the blue mark beneath it, his gaze elsewhere. To a time gone by. To a different, more painful farewell. “A goodbye won’t fix things, sure, but… at least you have a chance to say it.”

Her throat was dry, but Pidge made an effort to nod again. “At least we get a chance.”

Green was quiet now. There was just her, and Lance, and the space between them, space that wasn’t so empty but full of unspoken words that Pidge knew she’d never say. She thought of Allura, of her arms wrapped around her, in their final moments together. Unspoken words. And the words that were spoken never did feel like the right last words.

Pidge figured there was no such thing as the right last words.

Lance gave her another nod, walking around her, the moment they would have had slipping through her fingers like sand. She turned around to look at him. One last time, if that’s what this was. One last time.

“Bye, Lance. I’m sorry.”

He stopped where she could see him last, and when he turned, Pidge forced herself to look at him. At him, at the marks, at his eyes.

“I hope you get over it, Pidge.” His voice was small. “I hope you find that happy you’re looking for once you’re out of here.”

She cleared her throat. “I hope you find your happy, too.”

And then Lance was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading ! it's summer vacation soon here so i hope i get more time to write huhuhu. we have a long, long way to go. thank you for being along for the journey~
> 
> @nadiarizavi on tumblr


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